


Silence in the Dark

by Caenea



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Beer, Casual Sex, Friends With Benefits, Gay Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, POV Multiple, friends catch them in the act
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7017334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Enjolras and Grantaire each struggle with burgeoning feelings for each other, a seemingly innocent cut hand provides the spark which sets off the gunpowder of their romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence in the Dark

TITLE: Silence in the Dark

“It’s a nasty cut, but I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” Grantaire mutters, concentrating on the bandage. “Teach you to pay a bit more attention.”

“Teach you not to start an argument with me when I’m peeling potatoes,” Enjolras mumbles, scowling at his hand.

“Teach you not to be so easily bothered,” Grantaire responds, moving to the sink to wash his hands. Enjolras watches him, watches the tendons in his arms contract as he cleans up, and he tries not to think about the sting of the antiseptic. “I’ll check it in an hour. If you’re still bleeding, I’ll drive you to the doctors.” Enjolras rolls his eyes at his housemate, picks up the knife that started all the trouble and dumps it and the half done potatoes in the sink. “You know, I somehow don’t fancy them now you’ve bled all over them. I’m going to order pizza. You in?” Enjolras makes a noise of agreement in his throat and moves into the living room.

That night, lying in the dark, Enjolras thinks about Grantaire as he has thought about him every night since day one of knowing him. With the throb of his wound keeping sleep at bay, there’s nothing to do but think about the man who he knows is even now pouring himself a glass of wine and settling down to read about de Sade and the French Revolution. It should bother him to know how painfully aware of Grantaire he is, even when Grantaire is three rooms away and out of earshot. It should, but it doesn’t, rather it awakens in him other feelings, feeling hands run over his legs, chest, stroke neck and face, fingers run through his hair. Enjolras closes his eyes, fights desire, fights to sleep.

Grantaire makes coffee like he has every morning since he and Enjolras moved in together. He can hear the other man now, moving about the bathroom, his shower over. Perhaps he won’t shave today; perhaps he can’t with the cut and the bandage. If Grantaire were the type to feel guilty, perhaps he would - after all, Enjolras is only hurt because he started an argument about the July revolutions. But he is not the kind of man to feel guilty and he has done plenty that other people would consider he has to feel guilty about: deflowering, arrogance, the drinking, and the partying, the missed moments. His lust for pure, viceless, passionate, handsome Enjolras.

Enjolras. The closest he comes to feeling guilt is when the temptation of that purity, the blue eyes, the blond curls, the muscles and those clever hands is put before him. So very pure. He has gone for pure before this, before him, Enjolras doesn’t have the monopoly on that: but only for the satisfaction of seeing pure men beg for him, beg to be taken, have their purity marred. And God knew, they always ended up begging. But with Enjolras, it would be different. He would still beg, but Grantaire wants to keep that purity, cherish it and yet he craves to see those blue eyes glazed with lust and desire. He wants to hear that voice beg, feel those clever hands touch him. Feel that clever, smart mouth consuming him. Yes, if he were ever to feel guilt, he would feel it over his feelings for the man who has just walked into the kitchen with hair still damp from his shower.

Enjolras accepts the mug of coffee Grantaire holds out to him eagerly, drinks, steadies and acknowledges the morning.

“Did you sleep well?” Grantaire asks, eyeing him keenly. Stubble shadows his jaw, and his eyes are still heavy.

“A little, not much. Did you?”

“I did, after reading several pages of very graphic sodomy.” He drinks coffee, nearly laughs at the blush which briefly touches Enjolras’ cheeks. So very pure.

“Do you have class today?” Enjolras asks, in a bid to change the subject. Another morning, perhaps Grantaire would have continued teasing him for the pleasure of seeing that blush heighten.

“No. Just heading to the library to research.” Grantaire dumps his mug in the sink, moves to the door leading to his bedroom. “Enjoy your day.”

Hours later, Grantaire stretches at his desk, catches the eye of a boy who is sneaking glances, winks. He blushes like Enjolras. Even has the hair style. He vaguely knows this one, and he knows from his contacts that while the blushes paint a picture of a pure boy, this one is far from it in the sack. He debates briefly, before deciding. He scribbles a note, gets up, walks past the table of the blonde, and drops it onto his desk. He doesn’t have to look back to know he’s being followed. They’re all the fucking same, he thinks, bitterness creeping in. All desperate to give it to whoever asks for it, all panting, eager whores. Enjolras would be different. He’d need persuading, need seducing. Grantaire leans against the sink, waits. Sure enough, the door to the bathroom swings open and the blond boy who blushes so much like Enjolras walks through it. He’s not blushing now. Oh no, no blushes now. It’s a situation Grantaire is familiar with, just looking for some quick fun. He pushes the boy into a cubicle, locks the door, accepts the kiss, finding the other man’s belt and unbuckling it. Already hard, Grantaire reflects grimly, already begging. Quick strokes, get him to delirium, won’t take long with this one. He turns his partner, shoving him until he bends forward, offering Grantaire an admittedly pretty arse, one he’d pant over if Enjolras wasn’t inside him like a goddamn virus. He rips open the condom packet with his teeth, one hand busy preparing the boy for what he must know will be an impersonal, violent fuck. He grabs the boy by the shoulders, lines himself up, pushes forward. The boy groans, presses back eagerly. Alright, so it can be as quick and hard as Grantaire wants, this whore can take it all. Let him worry about what to hold onto. It’s over quickly, the boy coming with a groan, his convulsing forcing Grantaire over that edge. There’s no waiting to ground himself, no waiting for breathing to level out. He just straightens up, slipping out and sliding the condom off. The boy tidies himself, pulls up his jeans, smoothing the shoulders of his t-shirt where Grantaire’s hands flexed. He makes no attempt to leave a number or even to say anything, but he flashes Grantaire a pretty dazzling smile as he leaves. Perhaps they both got what they wanted, Grantaire reflects, binning the condom and washing his hands. He glances at his watch. Enjolras’ last class will be letting out soon. If Grantaire was the kind of man to feel guilty, perhaps he’d feel it over going to Enjolras after fucking another man in a bathroom cubicle. Perhaps.

Head in his bag as ever, Grantaire reflects. He deliberately steps into his path, and sure enough, Enjolras walks head on into him. Snatching his chance, Grantaire cages him with his arms, even as Enjolras rolls his eyes upon seeing who it is.

“You smell like sex.” Grantaire ignores that.

“I have come into possession of an excellent bottle of wine. While the hedonistic side of me wants to lock my door and drink it all, the courteous side of me demands I at least offer to share.”

“You don’t have a courteous side,” Enjolras says, freeing himself and turning to walk home. “You’re pure hedonist. Who was he, Grantaire, some eager boy you found?” As this is really disturbingly accurate, Grantaire frowns a little before smiling.

“That eager boy took a good fucking, so who am I to complain?” He watches for the blush, triumph spreading as it stains Enjolras’ cheeks.

“Why do you really want to share?”

“Your lack of faith in my nice side wounds me.”

“Then we’re pretty much even,” Enjolras responds, digging his keys out of the pocket of jeans that are slightly too tight. Grantaire knows every inch of those jeans, how the denim is worn white over stress points - his knees, over his hips, the belt loops, and the crotch. The knowledge makes him swallow, fight the urge to simply tackle Enjolras to the floor and have him, have him until he’s screaming Grantaire’s name. Instead, he watches him move - dumping his rucksack on the sofa, moving into his painfully tidy bedroom - worlds away from Grantaire’s messy man-cave - taking off his shoes, hanging up his jacket and shrugging into that red cardigan thing he always wears. Finally, shaking himself out of his stupor, Grantaire retreats to the kitchen, finds a couple of wine glasses, pours them both a glass. Enjolras frowns as he comes in and sees the glass Grantaire holds out to him. “Isn’t it a bit early?”

“It’s after five. Here.” Shrugging, Enjolras accepts the glass, sips, and savours.

“That is good wine. Where’d you get it?”

“Courfeyrac gave it to me.”

“I’ll have to ask him next time.” Enjolras takes a mouthful, moves to the fridge. “What do you want for dinner tonight?” Their set up works well - Enjolras cooks and washes up, Grantaire runs the hoover around and does the laundry.

“What is there?” Enjolras frowns at the fridge.

“Not much. We need to go shopping, especially if the guys are coming over tomorrow night. Is that still happening?”

“Is the game still on?”

“Sadly yes.”

“Then that is still happening. Will you be joining us, or will you wall yourself up in your monk’s cell and judge us all?”

“I don’t judge you. I just disapprove of all the noise.” He takes another mouthful of the wine, savours it before he swallows. Grantaire watches the slim throat contract and takes a decent gulp of his own wine. All his self-control is dedicated to not reaching out and kissing that neck.

“So, what are our choices?”

“Like I said, limited. We have the ingredient here for pasta bake; I think there’s a jar of sauce somewhere and mince in the freezer. And if there isn’t sauce, I can make it with tomato soup and that I know we have.”

“Sounds good. Can I help?”

“You can cut this onion.”

There’s nothing really on TV and they end up watching some film on some channel, eating pasta bake and drinking wine. When the first bottle is done, he overrides Enjolras’ protests and gets a second bottle from his own stash. It doesn’t take long and it doesn’t take much for the colour in Enjolras’ face to be there because of the wine. The film has become little more than background buzz, and Grantaire watches his eyes slide half-closed and how he relaxes about the shoulders.

“You should get drunk more often. Look how you’re so much less tense.” Grantaire’s voice filters through the fog in Enjolras’ head, and the man shakes his head to try and clear it. He can see the casual way Grantaire is sitting, leaning against the arm of the sofa, one leg bent up, and the other positioned so his foot is flat on the floor. Ideal for someone to crawl into his arms and rest their head on his chest. Drunk. He’s been drunk before, long ago, back at Fresher’s Week. They all were. That was how he met Grantaire. Tall, dark, handsome, a friend from home of his then flat-mate Marius. He was new, the new boy, from a strange city far away, and when he moved into his halls, Marius was the only one there. He took Enjolras under his wing, which apparently also meant pouring outrageous amounts of alcohol into him. Marius had abandoned him halfway through the night in order to seduce some dark haired beauty. Grantaire found him slumped in a chair in the corner of the student bar, and had half-carried, half-dragged him back to his room and put him to bed. Enjolras had been so embarrassed, but the next morning, when he’d found Grantaire in his kitchen and had tried to apologise, Grantaire had just laughed it off. Enjolras doesn’t know if it’s the wine, but he leans sideways until his head comes into contact with Grantaire’s chest, moving himself until he’s comfortable.

As soon as Enjolras’ head touches his chest, Grantaire freezes. What’s he doing? And how bloody drunk is he? But Enjolras doesn’t stop until he’s settled his warm weight against Grantaire, and his waist is pressing against Grantaire’s crotch. Before he can think, before he can process how drunk Enjolras is, Grantaire closes his arms around his friend, holding him, one hand sneaking up to play with the blond curls at the nape of his neck, the other holding him close. As he plays absently with Enjolras’ hair, he determines to simply watch the film, just as Enjolras is doing, as if all this is totally normal and they spend every night cuddling on the sofa. As if the warm weight of Enjolras wasn’t making him almost wild with desire for him. As if his body isn’t responding in very interesting ways to having Enjolras so close. Cautiously, trying not to attract Enjolras to what he’s doing, Grantaire inhales deeply, smelling Enjolras’ body spray, the scent of his washing powder, a warm scent that’s entirely unique to him. Suddenly, he feels a hand at his waistband, and warm fingertips press against his stomach, finding their way under the t-shirt he wears and touching so gently it’s barely even there. The effect on Grantaire is instantaneous and electric, and he physically jumps under Enjolras’ fingers. The feather-light touch changes to firm pressure, as Enjolras moves his hand to lay it flat on Grantaire’s stomach, warm flesh touching warm flesh, his breath flowing warm on Grantaire’s jaw as he looks up. Although he knows it’s foolish, Grantaire looks down at him, and sees blue eyes ablaze behind the glaze of drink, sees desire hot on that face.

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras asks, voice husky with either the wine or something more.

“Nothing,” Grantaire says and hears the strain in his voice.

“Do you want me to stop?” Enjolras asks, blushing, his hand moving under Grantaire’s shirt, exploring his stomach, stroking down to the soft skin just under the waistband of Grantaire’s jeans.

“Fuck no,” Grantaire groans it, and Enjolras smiles, continuing his exploration. Grantaire is harder than he’s ever been in his life, there’s no way Enjolras can’t feel it, he’s pressed against him so closely. The hand under his shirt continues moving, stroking up to his chest, now trailing fingertips down to his stomach. As Enjolras slips the very tips of his fingers beneath his waistband, touching the soft skin there and sliding over the trail of hair leading down from his belly button, Grantaire bucks, his hips moving independently and a gasp escaping him.

“You want me,” Enjolras says, wonder in his tones under the slurring.

“Fuck yes, I want you,” Grantaire mumbles helplessly. He seizes Enjolras, pushing him backward, pushing until Enjolras is cradling him in his hips and he’s over him, staring down at him. Enjolras is flushed, lips apart and breath spilling forth unchecked and unhampered. Unhampered until Grantaire descends, his lips coming down on Enjolras’ without a second thought. Something explodes inside him when Enjolras pauses, hesitates, and then responds, his hands coming up to tangle into Grantaire’s hair and pull gently. Grantaire pulls away. “Can you feel it?” he growls, grinding his hips into Enjolras’. “Can you feel how much I want you?”

“Yes,” Enjolras whispers the word, biting his lip, pure even in the heat of this.

Pure.

Grantaire uses the last ounce of his strength and control to push himself off Enjolras and go back to his end of the sofa. Enjolras sits up, looking quizzical. Grantaire loves that look.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Can’t do this,” Grantaire rasps, his body screaming at him to go back to Enjolras and keep kissing him. The flash of hurt on Enjolras’ face nearly kills him.

“Why?”

“I - you - we just can’t.” Can’t because you’re too beautiful to be had like this, drunk and on our sofa, he adds in silence.

“Because I’m not one of your eager whores?” Enjolras flashes at him, before getting up off the sofa. Credit to him, he barely sways. “Well, fuck you Grantaire.” Before Grantaire can react, Enjolras has disappeared into his room and locked the door.

“Enjolras, please, let’s talk.”

“You’ve made it pretty fucking clear that I’m not good enough. Why don’t you go and find someone more experienced to suck your dick and beg?” Grantaire winces at the words, understanding what Enjolras thinks is the problem.

“That’s not it. Please, can you open the door?”

“No. Go away.” Grantaire lets temper get the best of him, and picking up his glass and the half empty bottle of wine, he returns to his room, throwing himself onto his bed, wrestling his jeans off. Wrapping a hand around his cock, he summons the image of Enjolras under him, the memory of the feel of a timid hand exploring his skin. It feels so wrong to be jacking off to Enjolras, someone so pure. But it’s enough, enough for temper to meld with desire and take his breath away as he orgasms in his own hand.

Enjolras fumes silently, trying to ignore his cock begging him for attention. Fucking Grantaire, with his experience and his fucking notches. Fucking wine. Grantaire probably thinks he’s a complete idiot now, acting under the force of the drink and practically throwing himself at him. Just one more fool falling at his feet, Enjolras thinks, bitterly. As if Grantaire didn’t already have half the campus after him, as if he didn’t already have enough sluts to bed. Enjolras knows all that, and yet he still threw himself at him and still got hurt when he was inevitably pushed away. One slut like all the others.

Sleep brings sobriety and Enjolras is grateful that there’s no hangover. He’s hoped that with sobriety would come convenient amnesia, but there’s no such luck for him. He drags himself through the shower, shaves, dresses, forces himself to act like everything is normal.

But everything isn’t normal, and for the first morning ever, Grantaire isn’t in the kitchen to offer him coffee, to tease, to laugh with. He isn’t in his room, either, and there’s no note. Enjolras’ heart sinks. It’s apparent that Grantaire intends to play the avoidance games. Enjolras has seen him play it before, when a conquest wants to become something more. Fuck.

How he gets through that day is a mystery to him. He barely hears his lecturers, barely acknowledges the chatter of Marius, Courfeyrac and the rest, just fights the sinking feeling that Grantaire is gone for good and he’s ruined any chance he might once have had. If the others sense for even a moment that there’s something wrong, it isn’t mentioned, and when it’s time for the game, Enjolras prays that Grantaire is home, because if he isn’t it will require an explanation of Enjolras that he simply cannot give. At the same time, he hopes Grantaire isn’t home, because then the others might leave and he could be in peace and solitude. But when they reach the flat, the sounds of the TV reach them and Grantaire is on the sofa, sprawled in the same position as last night, his face carefree and happy. Enjolras feels anger bubble up inside him when Grantaire barely even acknowledges him. Instead, he makes some excuse about work and retreats into his room. The others are used to him not joining them for games, and don’t protest, just settle themselves around the room. Enjolras knows that beer is going to be passed around liberally, and that makes him angry too. He sets up his books and plunges into his work.

Courfeyrac knocks an hour and a half later, before pushing open his door and coming in, closing it behind him.

“I brought you a beer,” he says, holding out the bottle. “I thought you might like one.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras mutters, taking the bottle.

“And we’re ordering pizza. You in?”

“Sure.”

“So, you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to pry it out of you with forceps?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Liar.”

“I swear.”

“There’s something up. I know you, Enjolras. And this isn’t about getting your work done - I’m willing to bet that book is open to the exact part it started at when you first came in here.” Enjolras accepts the opener Courfeyrac offers, cracks open his beer and drinks deep before he answers.

“How’d you know?”

“Because I know you. And if you were actually working, you’d have been in at least once to yell about the noise and the volume of the TV.” He surveys Enjolras, notices a tell-tale air to him. “Is it Grantaire?” Enjolras’ head comes up so fast and the denial is so vehement that Courfeyrac immediately knows he’s hit the mark. “What did he do?”

“Nothing. It’s what I did.”

“Finally made the move, huh?”

“Shut up,” Enjolras snaps. Courfeyrac smiles, perching himself on Enjolras’ bed. “He rejected me. For God’s sake, we were out there on that sofa, about to go for it, and he stopped. He was on top of me, I was hard for him and he knew it and he fucking stopped. Fucking stopped.”

“Did he say why?”

“Just said that we couldn’t do it. Might as well have added it was because he knew I wouldn’t be able to please him.”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to please him?” Courfeyrac demands, reaching out and pulling him out of his chair. Enjolras stands in front of him, frowning down at him. “I remember you pleasing me very well.” On a whim, Enjolras bends down and kisses him, feeling Courfeyrac respond immediately, sliding his hands up his arms. Breaking away, Enjolras moves his lips to his ear and whispers “Make me feel wanted.” It’s all Courfeyrac needs: if Grantaire won’t take it when it’s offered so freely, he damn well will. Bearing Enjolras down onto the bed, his lips feast on the eager mouth and his hands impatiently unbutton the shirt hiding warm flesh from him. He tears his mouth away, races down his chest, hands fumbling with his belt. Willing flesh springs free, simply begs to be touched and Courfeyrac obliges it, unable to deny it what it clearly wants, taking Enjolras into his mouth and diving down. “Courfeyrac,” Enjolras moans it, his hips bucking.

“Shh, they’ll hear us.” Enjolras nods, clamping his lips together desperately. Courfeyrac continues his ministrations, carrying on until Enjolras is bucking under him. He knows he’s close, so he leaves him, works on his own clothes. “You got stuff?” he mutters, looking at Enjolras, lying stretched out and panting before him, face hazy with desire.

“Top drawer, bedside cabinet,” Enjolras gasps, his hands finding Courfeyrac’s prick and caressing it. Sure enough, Courfeyrac finds what he needs, and rips open the package, sheathing himself, knocking away Enjolras’ impatient, greedy hands, and preparing him roughly. “For God’s sake, just do it.” Obeying his request and pushing his knees up to his chest, Courfeyrac slides inside his lover and the effect on Enjolras is immediate. His eyes roll back into his head, he smothers a cry with the back of his hand, and Courfeyrac dips his head to smother the moans with his mouth as he starts moving inside him. All Enjolras can think is that one of their friends could walk in any moment, catch him bucking under Courfeyrac and having his moans muffled by one strong hand and feeling the other pumping his cock almost violently while all he can do is cling hopelessly to Courfeyrac’s shoulders. It just makes him harder, makes him hotter, until it feels like his skin is sizzling, prickles of heat running up and down his arms and legs until he’s shaking uncontrollably.

Enjolras is on the brink and shuddering hopelessly under Courfeyrac, his nails making patterns of his back. The door flies open and someone’s voice filters in.

“What the hell are you two doing in here - Oh my God!” Enjolras snaps his head to the side, is vaguely aware of Marius before Courfeyrac lifts his head from kissing his throat.

“Get out,” he snaps, not pausing for a second. The knowledge that Courfeyrac doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop his ministrations, despite them still being under Marius’ shocked gaze, as well as the others in the living room, is enough to push Enjolras over the edge. He comes on a press of hips, a shudder, and a cry which is almost ripped from him, too quickly for Courfeyrac to muffle although god knows there isn’t a point now. The door has been closed at some point and Marius is gone. Only when the dark spots have cleared from his vision is he aware that Courfeyrac has come too, and is slumped over him, panting and gasping. Only once the haze has left his head is he aware that they were interrupted. Courfeyrac rolls off him and lies next to him, his breathing harsh as he tries to steady himself, and Enjolras moves to sit on the edge of the bed. “Don’t be embarrassed,” Courfeyrac murmurs, sitting up and kissing the back of his neck. “They’ve seen it all before.”

“Not me,” Enjolras mutters, hating the blush he can feel spreading over his cheeks. “You maybe, but they haven’t seen me before.”

“You regret it? Should I have stopped?”

“God no.” Courfeyrac laughs, pressing more kisses onto his neck. Enjolras drops his head back to rest on Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Look, they won’t mention it, and if they do, I’ll deal with it. They will act like I got lucky though.”

“You did get lucky. I don’t beg anyone.”

“It’ll look less odd if we get dressed and go out and act like it’s perfectly normal.” Enjolras nods, leans back for one last kiss, and then starts collecting his clothes. Courfeyrac does the same, and hands Enjolras back his forgotten beer. “Dutch courage. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Though it means nothing, he’s grateful that Courfeyrac holds his hand on the way out. He deliberately doesn’t look at Grantaire. He tells himself he doesn’t care if he’s judging him, if he cares at all. He and Courfeyrac sit together and he drinks his beer and deliberately avoids any eye contact with Grantaire.

As soon as the game is over and the others have left, Grantaire makes for his room, but Enjolras isn’t going to let him just slip away. They’re going to talk about what almost happened between them, the kiss they shared. He knocks once on Grantaire’s door before bursting through it. His room is the mess it always in, his desk littered with papers, the floor around it covered in crumpled scraps of it and clothes and books cover the floor.

“You’d think you of all people would know the value of people knocking and waiting.”

“We need to talk.”

“What about.”

“About what happened yesterday.”

“Why?”

“Because you were going to fuck me and we both know it,” Enjolras says, blushing. Grantaire fights himself - why is he so damn attractive when he’s blushing and how can he blushing saying the words just minutes after Grantaire saw him naked under Courfeyrac, head thrown back and mouth open with desire? The noise he made, the noise they all heard when Courfeyrac made him come - Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything so beautiful before.

“Well, you got a fuck, so what’s the problem?”

“Because as good as he is, he isn’t you,” snaps Enjolras. Grantaire sits up, stares.

“What?”

“I want it to be you. I wanted you to fuck me. But if you think I’m just some cheap whore, then I guess I’m just wasting my time here.” Enjolras turns to leaves the room, but before he can, Grantaire is beside him and has slammed him against his bedroom door, using Enjolras to slam it closed.

“Never say that. Never. And why the hell would you even think it?”

“That’s why you wouldn’t fuck me, isn’t it. Because I’m just another slut, except the difference between me and your usual boys is that I’m completely lacking in the experience to please you.” Grantaire stares at him.

“You think that’s why I pulled away from you? You think that’s the reason?”

“What else?”

“You idiot. You absolute idiot. I pulled away from you because you’re too good to have me have you on some sofa while you’re raging drunk.”

“What?”

“You’re too beautiful and too pure and too good for me.”

“But I want you.” Enjolras balls his fists and smacks them against Grantaire’s chest. “I want you. None of this bullshit about how it’s not me it’s you, or I’m too good - if you don’t want me, look me in the eye now and tell me you don’t want me.” Enjolras can feel his lip shaking and he bites down on it. Grantaire nearly shudders with lust at seeing the gesture.

“I can’t. But I couldn’t have you in that state.” Enjolras stares.

“So - you don’t think I’m too inexperienced? Too inexperienced to please you?”

“Enjolras. I am the worst man on this earth, because your purity is what makes me want you. You are nothing like the other men I have, and that’s why I want you so badly.”

“Will you have me once and then tire?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever tire of you.” That’s when Grantaire kisses him, kisses him harsh and hard, and claims the mouth that opens so eagerly and readily for him. No, Grantaire thinks, tasting honey and chocolate on his lover’s mouth, he will never tire of this. How Enjolras so eagerly touches what he can reach and cups the back of his neck, tips back his head so willingly to give Grantaire access to his throat and gasps when stubble scrapes against the soft skin in the dip of his collar bone. So sensitive, so soft. Hair like feathers against his fingers, eyes already wild. But it’s when he hears Enjolras gasp his name oh-so-softly when eager hands find the bulge in his jeans that Grantaire looses any semblance of self control.

He carries the boy to his bed, and divests him of his clothes rapidly; fighting to be gentle, body making him be impatient and quick. He takes his time with Enjolras, explores every inch of that glorious body, with mouth, hands, tongue and teeth. Long legs, toned with all the walking Enjolras does, long arms and clever hands, hands that manage to make carrying books look sensual, slim neck and a gloriously golden chest all ready to be claimed.

Enjolras watches Grantaire watch him, feels his hands explore and relishes the scrape of stubble against his skin. When Grantaire kisses him, he knows that tomorrow it’ll be evident that he spent his night being kissed and that thrills him.

“Promise me he’ll never touch you again,” Grantaire growls the words, his hand pausing in the act of stroking Enjolras dangerously close to ecstasy.

“Never,” Enjolras swears, searching out those lips for another kiss. “Never again.” Grantaire kisses him, possessive and hard.

“Mine,” he growls, fisting Enjolras’ cock roughly. “Say it.”

“Yours,” Enjolras gasps, his head falling back, his legs shaking as he feels the edge approaching. “Always yours.” Grantaire makes a noise of approval, his hand growing damp with pre-cum, watching Enjolras start to lose himself, feeling him shake and hearing his gasps that sound almost like gasps of pain, like each one is being ripped from him by main force. “So close,” he whispers. “Grantaire.”

“Let me see you lose control,” Grantaire returns, changing his pace, getting faster. As Enjolras’ eyes roll back and he starts to lose it, Grantaire slips a finger into him. Enjolras feels his eyes fly open, and his back arches impossibly as he comes, comes hard and hot, falling apart under dark eyes that never leave his face.

As Enjolras pants on the bed, spent and eyes heavy, Grantaire holds his gaze as he raises his hand to his mouth and tastes his lover. Musky, salt and a tang that’s unfamiliar but entirely pleasant, Enjolras tastes of heady pleasure. Giving him the chance to recover and giving himself a chance to get into some semblance of control, Grantaire cleans off his hand, strips, and collects what he needs from his drawers. Enjolras is watching him, blue eyes glowing in the half-light of Grantaire’s room.

“One last chance, my beautiful boy,” Grantaire murmurs, stealing another kiss. “One last chance to remind me you’re far too good for me to have.” In answer, Enjolras sits up, pushing Grantaire to the bed, pushing him to his back and crawling down his body. Suddenly, hot wet heat has engulfed his cock, and its Grantaire’s turn to gasp as Enjolras slides down him, raises his eyes to meet the dark ones staring down at him and then takes his length into his mouth in its entirety. Grantaire could almost swear he actually blacks out as he feels the very time of Enjolras’ nose touch the skin over his dick, and feels the throat consuming him barely even twitch. Grantaire swears he feels his brain short-circuit, reaching down to hold the blonde head in place for a few seconds before he lets Enjolras take charge of it and just loses himself in the sensation of feeling that hot and eager mouth do things he’d never imagined possible. While another time he’d love to watch Enjolras swallow everything he can give, this time isn’t about that, this time is about giving Enjolras what he wants. “Stop, beautiful,” Grantaire orders, pulling Enjolras off his dick and dragging him up for a kiss.

“How do you want me?” Enjolras asks, and it’s so sexy to hear such a dirty question coming from such a beautiful boy.

“On your back. I want to see your face while I have you.” He prepares him gently, fairly confident that even if Enjolras has secretly slept around just as much as he has, he won’t be able to just immediately take Grantaire. Only when Enjolras is thrashing about and begging under his hands does he remove them, replace his fingers with cock finally sliding home inside him. Once he’s there, Enjolras loops his arms around him, holds him still for a moment. “You alright?” Grantaire rasps, fighting to stay still.

“Big. So fucking big,” Enjolras mumbles, and Grantaire feels a scrape of teeth on his shoulder. He holds himself for a few more seconds, then moves tentatively, dictating the pace for now, until he relaxes and nods to Grantaire. Knowing what he means, knowing he’s OK to continue, Grantaire moves, the tight pressure around his cock driving him wild, the look on Enjolras’ face as the thrusts enough to drive weaker men over the edge, the gasps and moans and nonsense spilling from his lips making it hard not to let go completely and just fuck the boy into oblivion. Enjolras himself can think of nothing but how amazing Grantaire fills inside him, how full he is with his cock, how good Grantaire’s hands feel when they press down on his chest to gain leverage on him so he can fuck him harder.

For the third time in a day, Enjolras feels his balls beginning to tighten and his vision begin to cloud slightly around the edges. All he can see with any clarity now is the sweat on Grantaire’s brow, the tension of his jaw line, the darkness of his eyes and the lust on his face - all he can see is Grantaire. Grantaire fills his senses, fills his world, fills his life and fills him. It’s all he can think about and all he can be aware of.

“Fuck, Grantaire, fuck, please, please, nearly - I’m so close, so close - please.” Grantaire manages half a laugh and drops a hand to Enjolras’ painfully hard cock.

“Fucking come then,” he gasps the words and pumps the cock in his hand and feels Enjolras contract and grasp about him and feels damp heat spread under his fingers and sees the evidence of what they’ve done glisten on Enjolras’ washboard stomach. Enjolras is barely even sure he’s still conscious, barely aware of life, barely aware of Grantaire now. Only when Grantaire slams into him one last, final time does Enjolras become more aware of him, aware that he’s coming inside him. He forces his eyes open, tries to focus on Grantaire through the sleep that’s fighting to crowd in. Grantaire in the grips of an orgasm is beautiful and savage, his teeth exposed in what looks like a snarl, his eyes so black pupils are indistinguishable and his face feral and dark. Enjolras could get used to seeing that. Grantaire collapses onto him, leaning his weight onto him. Enjolras holds him there, arms and legs curled about him. He keeps him there even as sleep begins to claim him, and he barely feels Grantaire leave him, move about the room and then climb back in beside him. He’s enough awake to snuggle into the embrace Grantaire offers him, but after that the darkness comes down. He falls asleep in the tightest, safest embrace he’s ever known, and before the same sleep claims Grantaire, he presses a sleepy kiss onto Enjolras’ forehead. In his sleep, Enjolras smiles and presses a little closer. Grantaire settles himself down and tightens his grip before he allows himself to sink under the waves of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This story originally appeared on ff.net.


End file.
